


One Step Forward

by Selethe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Adventure, Character Death, Dark!Harry, F/M, Intelligent!Harry, Intrigue, Magic, Romance, Snarky!Harry, Suspense, Veela, alternative universe, dark!fleur, horcrux, mature themes, post-GoF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selethe/pseuds/Selethe
Summary: FD/HP [Post-GoF] Unfortunately, sharing a cell with Fleur Delacour isn't as delightful as it sounds. dark!Harry/dark!FleurWhen Fleur and Harry are abducted by a Dark Lord sympathizer, they realize they must find a way to escape before Harry is handed off to Voldemort. But what is Fleur hiding? What about Harry? Pairing with a plot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm new to Ao3 so don't be alarmed if the summary/tags end up changing -- I'm still playing around with the site. As for this fic, I'm fairly busy with school so updates may be sporadic. Always looking for betas though, so if you're interested please shoot me a message! Or even if you don't, send me a message anyway. I love getting to know people and I need more fanfic-appreciative friends ;p
> 
> This fic is also on FFnet by the same name.

_"Invenietis Cobb & Webb's!"_

Restlessness welled up within Harry as his wand yet again failed to produce the distinctive silver-wisp trail of his favored tracking charm. No line to follow, nowhere to go. Some spells were finicky, prone to sputtering out when their caster wasn't in the right mindset for it, but this wasn't one of those spells — it was well-mannered, which could only then mean the shop failed to meet one of the charm's three provisos: that it must exist, must not be magically concealed, or must not have the nettlesome habit of spontaneously relocating.

No choice but the traditional way, then: _looking._

Lovely.

He quickly stashed the holly length up his sleeve and started his search down back streets not oft traveled, the velvety summer air wilting and the din of chattering cicadas swelling the further he went. Uneven, grit-slick cobblestone signaled the decay of local upkeep charms.

At Hogwarts, he'd overheard a clique of older Ravenclaws gossiping about a certain hush-hush shop that apparently sold wands capable of untraceable magic. Harry wasn't one to chase rumors — alright, maybe he was — but if the Dursleys wouldn't have him right now, then he thought he might as well do something _productive_. What if Malfoy sent an evil house-elf to the Dursleys and told him to blast around some magic? Fudge would swoop in snap Harry's wand before a warning missive could be strapped to an owl's leg.

He couldn't leave things up to chance anymore. The Ministry was searching for even the smallest of excuses to buddy him up with Neville's parents in the psych w—

Cursing through his teeth, he managed to somehow not slip and crack his skull open on a muddied newspaper. Plastered front and center, a solemn wizard offered a quick wave before retreating from flashing lights and an energetic crowd. How unusual. A recent edition of the Daily Prophet covering actual news? And here Harry thought he might enjoy yet another exclusive on how constant hero-worship had driven the Boy-Who-Lived bonkers.

—  
**CUTHBERT MOCKRIDGE DEAD AT NINETY-FOUR**  
_Head of the Goblin Liaison Office Found Deceased In His Home By Natural Causes_  
—

Harry tilted his head at an odd angle to get a better look. Mockridge had single-handedly prevented — to the disappointment of Professor Binns, to be sure — what could've been many noteworthy goblin rebellions due to his unparalleled negotiating skills. Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. Passed away quietly in his sleep, did he? Where had he heard that one before. In these past few weeks alone, two former Ministers of Magic had died, one from 'old age', the other from guzzling too much of a sleeping elixir. People of influence were being picked off, and who knew how many. Hermione and Ron it seemed, were too busy studying for OWLs to keep him up to date.

Voldemort was back and no one believed it but him, his friends, and Dumbledore, and Dumbledore wasn't doing very much at all. In fact, Harry hadn't received so much as a postcard from the Headmaster.

It would've been funny, how hard the Wizarding World was trying to bury the situation, if only people weren't — er — _dying._ Harry picked the filthy Daily Prophet up by a clean corner and tossed it into the rubbish bin. Letting a newly dead man's picture rot on the ground plucked at his conscience — it was the little service he could do.

And he continued on his way.

Long past were the fantastical, whirring shops that had captured his attention as a young boy. Along this hag-smile road, he passed by an apothecary open on every second Monday from 11pm to 2am and a handful of threadbare boutiques peddling everything from sumptuous furs eager to strangle their new owners to little charmed totems whose eyes sparkled both wicked and wonderful. A wood-built tavern proudly bearing the name _The White Wyvern_ erupted with full-bodied laughter and as Harry got closer, his mouth watered at the wafting scent of spiced meats.

Harry's flesh crawled cold beneath his skin.

He had to be somewhere in the throat of Knockturn Alley.

But it wasn't the grungy atmosphere that brought unease to sit in his gut like a dragon egg. It was difficult to pinpoint, but when he'd stopped to throw away old Mockridge, somebody had noticed him. He was sure of it. He was being watched — he _knew_ he was being watched, but no matter how suddenly he turned, he couldn't spot anyone suspicious. Well, that wasn't quite right. The other shoppers in Knockturn Alley were nothing if not questionable, but none held that certain precarious mien he associated with people out to get him.

He should return to Privet Drive. Surely Mr. and Mrs. Mason had finished their dinner with the Dursleys. It'd been what? Four, five hours? And if he was too late, his relatives might try to lock him out of the house again.

Oh, yes. The Masons. Harry remembered the last time they'd come over, Dobby had dropped a cake on Mr. Mason's head. It had spoiled the whole evening and Uncle Vernon had grounded Harry for an eternity. This time, nearly three years later, the Masons cautiously agreed to return to the Dursleys for an evening of predictable entertainment and riveting discussion featuring _drills._ Uncle Vernon, ecstatic not to have obliterated his chance at networking with Mr. Mason, had taken no chances with Harry and demanded he make himself scarce as to not tempt another freakish incident.

Harry found himself oddly sympathetic. Besides, he didn't think he could suffer through Dudley's innocent little boy act again. In fact, that was the sort of thing that tempted him to take back what he had said about Voldemort's cruciatus curse being the worst pain he'd ever experienced.

An old, haggard woman with a jangling cart full of murky potions edged by him. Grimacing, he brushed his hair over his scar, but he didn't think he was fast enough. She offered him a mangled, toothless grin, and he gave her a crimped one in reply. Thankfully, she didn't say anything.

It was comforting to know that not _everyone_ thought he was mad.

Harry paused at a storefront to admire a curved sword engraved with opalescent glyphs; as if pleased with his attention, it glinted mischievously in greeting.

There it was. Again. That peculiar, prickling feeling.

Discretely, Harry reached into his sleeve where his holly wand was braced to his forearm. There was a great metallic rattling to his right and he spun to face it, only to see a rather fat blue cat scramble out of a tipped bin. Rotten potion ingredients spilled to the ground as a stinging scent painted the air.

He pressed his elbow to his nose. The cat looked at him, yellow-slit eyes brimming with cunning. If he didn't know better he would say it smirked at him.

Just a stupid cat.

"'Arry!" a voice, more song than statement, spoke right to his ear.

His heartbeat pounded in his throat. Her blue eyes sparkled, obviously finding his reaction humorous.

Somehow, he'd forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful Fleur was. She had an ethereal kind of attractiveness that left him unable to draw his eyes away for long. The summer had been kind to her, warming the pale of her skin and lightening silvery-gold hair; hair which buffeted behind her by a wind that wasn't there. Or perhaps it was? He couldn't quite tell, the Alley was starting to feel strangely airless.

"F-Fleur," he stuttered. Her perfect smile broadened, and he desperately wished he could start this whole conversation over again. "What are you doing here?"

"Surprising you, no?" Fleur said, stepping close to wrap her arms around him. Once the gears in his brain unfroze, he awkwardly reciprocated, his face burning hotter with every passing second. When they released she cupped his jaw and pressed warm kisses to both his cheeks.

Harry briefly wondered how he'd ever been able to _not_ go slack-jawed last year.

"I could not resist, you appeared so enraptured in your window shopping," she teased, drawing her glinting hair over her shoulder.

Her accent was less pronounced than it had been during the Tournament.

"I — I mean, here, in Diagon Alley."

Fleur arched a brow and refined the imperious cant of her head, taking full advantage of the scant few centimeters she had on him to cavalierly appraise him from down her nose.

"On my way 'ome. I am interning at Gringotts, which you must 'ave known, of course." Her voice oozed a level of high-handed conceit that would've had Malfoy grasping around for a parchment and quill for notes.

Harry didn't know because she'd never told him.

He suspected she knew that.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he allowed a guilty expression on his face. Sometimes, she caricatured herself for a laugh... which she did rather too well. He carried on as if she was teasing, unsure of what to say if that wasn't the case. "I don't know much of anything, really. My relatives look like they're about to have an aneurysm anytime they spot an owl. And I hear housing prices are rising, so I'd rather not have to find somewhere else to live."

She laughed and he grinned.

Unfortunately, his joke was closer truth than jest. Aunt Petunia barely tolerated Hedwig as it was. Harry'd tried to ask Dumbledore if he could get some kind of specialty news delivery so the Dursleys wouldn't notice, but the Headmaster never responded. If not for his mother's blood protection he would've moved out — nothing else would've stopped him, not even if the only place in the entire world accepting tenants was that bin with that terrible cat.

"You come live with moi, 'Arry," Fleur said, "If you do not mind my roommates Manon and Vivien. Zey enjoy baccarat and screaming at each other, and when those things 'appen to coincide zey celebrate by practicing zheir aim with our furniture."

He chuckled. "I can cast a good shield charm."

She clucked her tongue and shook her head. "Unfortunately, ze French cannot be quelled so easily. What zey do — not even my charms can 'elp!"

Harry shrugged and turned back to the sword, feeling the natural end to the line of conversation. He wondered if —

"What is zat?" she asked, suddenly right beside him. "A machete? No, what is ze word... scimitar? It is so ugly."

"Really? I rather like it."

Her eyes narrowed at the glass. "Non. Find somezing else to like. Weapons from Ancient Egypt are no good. Zey were made too long ago, from inferior materials, and zey were personalized for their master, like a wand. Zat is what a friend of mine 'as said at least. 'E is knowledgeable about these kinds of things."

There was a flickering shift in her stance. If not for his keen observation of the other champions last year he would've disregarded it as Fleur simply flexing her foot; but it wasn't, it was nerves, and she didn't wear nervous well. In that brief moment between heartbeats, the knowledge that she tended toward freeze on the flight-or-flight scale had allowed him to blast her into a carnivorous hedge during the Third Task.

Not much made her nervous. It put him on edge.

Finally, she turned to face him. "'Arry, may I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"'Ow well do you know ze Weasleys?"

He gave her an oblique look. As his hindbrain began connecting half-thoughts, his gut stirred with some undefinable and not very pretty emotion.

"Ron Weasley's my best friend. He's the one I had to pull out of the lake."

She paused. "What do you zink of Bill Weasley?"

Bill worked as a cursebreaker, in _Gringotts_ , where Fleur was interning. Something like jealousy tightened Harry's chest, but he dashed it away quick. He wasn't even interested in Fleur. He'd barely thought about her all summer — who was he to suddenly want to plot against her happiness?

"I don't know him all that well, but he's a good man from what I've seen. Great fashion sense too," Harry said, winking, the redhead's dragon-tooth earring coming to mind. He'd always admired the adornment, maybe he should get one? If girls liked it — _especially_ if girls liked it — that was just an added bonus. Not to mention the long hair — should he grow his hair out?

Fleur nodded, a finger on her chin, and the forced upturn of Harry's lips dropped. "Zat is w—"

Ropes materialized out of thin air and coiled around Fleur like a deadly cocoon. Flinching back, Harry made to pull out his wand but he was brutally encased before it could touch his palm. His head slammed hard against the ground, bringing bright spots to his vision.

"The Dark Lord will be pleased, won't he, Selwyn?"

"Quiet, you mewling lubberwort. Get the veela, Macnair's birthday's coming up soon isn't it?"

In the distance, a cat yowled.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Recap: Harry wanders around Diagon/Knockturn Alley and runs into Fleur. Impolite as ever, Selwyn and his buddy disrupt their quick catch-up by abducting them in broad daylight.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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